“Jonathan, what the hell are those?” Mickey asked. He’d drifted into Man Ray on a dense cloud of painkillers. He looked down at Jonathan, who was slumped on the dark leather bench across from the bar, his feet up on a chair. Mickey grabbed Jonathan’s ankle and pulled his foot up so he could better see what Jonathan was wearing in the dim light of the bar.
“They’re from the new Saint Laurent line—something new that Tom Ford’s trying out, imitation crocodile.”
“They’re orange loafers.”
“Burnt sienna, actually,” Jonathan said. “You’re alone.”
“And feeling no pain,” Mickey said. He sat down and showed Jonathan his bottle of prescription Vicodin. “Want one?”
“No,” Jonathan said. “You remember what happened last time.”
Mickey nodded. Last time he’d let Jonathan use drugs, they had been at a party on the Floods’ old sailboat out in Greenwich. Jonathan had taken the same thing as everyone else, but then instead of lying back and listening to music, he’d spent the next six hours running around counting the life preservers, and then counting the people on the boat, and then checking in with the coast guard to make sure no storms were coming even though the sky was the color of a baby boy’s blanket … So, Mickey slowly withdrew the offer.
“Where’s everyone else?” Mickey asked. He looked around the bar, as if Arno, David, and Patch might be hiding and were going to leap out and surprise him.
“They all said they’d be here,” Jonathan said. Mickey grabbed the drink Jonathan was sipping and gulped it.
“Ah—what the hell is this?”
“Club soda with a splash of cranberry,” Jonathan said.
“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said. “I’m getting a beer.”
He went up to the bar. Although it was Saturday night and just past eight, the place was quiet, even tomblike. The bartender was an extremely tall young woman in a black T-shirt and jeans.
“Could I get a Stella?” Mickey asked. He knew that even if he didn’t know a staff member, they probably knew him. This was largely because he’d been coming to the restaurant for brunch with his parents since he was a little kid. The bar he was leaning against had been designed by his father before he’d gotten really famous.
The bartender looked in his eyes, which were as cloudy as his thoughts, and lined with red. She cocked her head to one side, then the other. Then she said, “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“You keep nodding, but I’m not asking you a question. It’s scary. So, no.”
“Are you saying no because I’m sixteen, or because I’m on enough painkillers to knock out an elephant?”
“Yes,” the bartender said. She pulled out a glass and the soda gun, poured Mickey a Coke, and handed it across to him. While this was going on, Mickey’s attention drifted to the groups of people who were beginning to come through the door, all waiting for their parties to arrive so they could get seated in the back. He looked back at Jonathan, who was on the phone.
In all the darkness, Mickey realized he couldn’t see the floor. There were just swirling mists down there. Part of him was grateful to the bartender for not letting him drink. The TV behind the bar was tuned to New York One, which was showing an interview with a woman who designed handbags shaped like dogs.
“Can we watch the Rangers game?” Mickey asked.
“If I say yes will you stay here so I can keep an eye on you?”
“Yes,” Mickey said back. “I want to keep my eyes on you, too.” He was slurring. Then he frowned, and it was a clown’s frown, big and sad and helpless. In about three seconds, the bartender melted for him.
“Gimme a kiss on the cheek and go sit with your friend with the funny shoes,” she said. So Mickey reached over and kissed her and she smelled like whiskey and daisies. She reached out and tousled his thicket of matchstick hair.
“Do you think my girlfriend will be angry at me for being such a mess?” Mickey asked.
“Only if she finds out you kissed me,” the bartender said. “Now get back to your friend. He looks upset.”
“Can you believe it? I don’t think anybody’s coming but Liza,” Jonathan said when Mickey sat down next to him. “And I don’t even remember inviting her.”
“Whatever,” Mickey said. His arm felt like it weighed as much as one of his Dad’s Cadillac sculptures.
“Where’s my drink?” Jonathan asked.
By then Mickey was so zoned out that all he could focus on was the whizzing puck on the TV screen.